Mailbox Owners Against Drunk Driving

*BANG!*

That was the sound late last night that came from outside. It was a sound both unusual and familiar — a car accident? Keith went outside to investigate and discovered that the mailboxes for our set of townhouses were missing from their regular post and lying some thirty feet down the road.

As it turns out, after some police investigation, our mailboxes had been struck by a drunk driver. *Warning: the following image may be disturbing for some audiences.

And even though the mailboxes have been restored and justice is being served, let this be a lesson to us all this holiday season: Mailboxes are precious. Don’t drink and drive.

This message has been brought to you by Mailbox Owners Against Drunk Driving.

November, November, November. Oh, November.

So we’ve been doing some work on our house — renovating and redectorating — and this is how our living room is coming along:

Just kidding. I mean, this really is how our living room looks right now, but it’s not going to stay like this for long. Obviously the fridge really would work better in the corner to the left of the television. Then the stove can scootch to the right a few feet, after we put the island on the wall opposite the TV. Then I’ll be able to cook and bake while catching up on episodes of Bones. Because watching Bones always whets my appetite.

Anyway, it’s That Time of Year: when we’re supposed to reflect on life’s blessings and remember to be grateful for our little joys, and share peace and gratitude and goodness with those around us. When we give and give and give, and do and do and do, and does it feel nice to spend time with family, decorating and eating and getting into the holiday spirit? Sure! Does it feel good to have a new tile floor, thanks to your in-laws’ generous hard work, and a new couch, thanks to…well, thanks to the Columbus Day sale at Macy’s? Absolutely! But I’m terribly far behind in my novel because of an avalanche of unforseen circumstances, and seeing as I’d have to write something like 8,000 words a day from now on to actually make it, I’m getting a little down in the dumps. *sigh*

So I’m thinking there’s one thing that’ll get us through the week. And that’s more chihuahua.

* * * * * * * * * *

Winchester Wilcox the Third was summarily startled out of his boots – if he’d had boots, that is – thanks to Thaxton’s other terrible habit of slamming his fist down on top of his desk periodically and for no apparent reason during heated telephone conversations.

“Blast it, Murnighan! I know who’s going to be there! And believe me, I’m not really worried about offending the foremost punctuational experts in the world – it’s going to happen anyway. No – listen – Just make sure I’m on the agenda, and as near the end as possible if you can swing it. I’m counting on you to make this happen.”

Which Winchester Wilcox the Third knew naturally meant, Make it happen or die. Thaxton started to slam his fist again, then held back at the very last moment, taking a deep breath instead.

“For heaven’s sake, T.J.,” Thaxton leaned forward in his chair, and the leather cushions rubbing together made a low and luxurious creaking and crinkling, “It’s a conference on punctuational research. Have you found any rule against –”

T.J. Murnighan was a worrywart, and Winchester Wilcox the Third didn’t understand why Thaxton continued to keep him on as his aide, except maybe for his exceptional schmoozing skills and large family. T.J. had managed to help make Thaxton the most well-connected councilman in Enid; Winchester had heard the wife of a councilman from Santo Bourbono explain it to the wives of councilmen from Toronto and Boncarbo. Winchester heard all sorts of wild things at Nurlene and Thaxton’s parties.

Like the rumor that Councilwoman Storelle Droverson from the sparkling city of Nouveau Paris was carrying on a steamy affair with Ethan Honeywell, the editor-in-chief of Golden Mean magazine. And that Councilman Wait Stringfellow from Manhattan and Amber had become involved in one of Merrick’s juiciest scandals, which involved an art heist, insurance fraud, and six cases of peanut butter.

Winchester, of course, assumed it was all mostly nonsense – people were highly inventive with their stories – but then his canine instinct told him that there was some truth buried deep within. And Winchester Wilcox the Third always trusted his canine instinct. Chihuahuas must always trust their canine instinct! his father taught him.

“Alright, T.J., you just work your magic, okay? Call that cousin of yours. I know you’ll make me happy!”

Thaxton, off the phone at last, sat back in his chair and rested his fist against his mouth. He shifted his eyes down and looked at Winchester, who was momentarily busy attending to an itch behind his ear.

When Winchester finished scratching his ear, he sat up straight and waited a moment before casually looking back over his shoulder at Thaxton.

Thaxton chuckled softly. “What do you think, Winchester?”

Winchester Wilcox the Third studied Thaxton’s face and thought that whatever Thaxton was up to, Thaxton believed it was important, and that no matter what he, Winchester Wilcox the Third, thought, T.J. Murnighan would knock at the front door later that evening after supper, Nurlene would conveniently come down with a terrible headache and feel horribly sorry for having to run off just as T.J. was arriving, and the two men would sit in the living room on the creaky-cushioned leather couches discussing Thaxton’s magnificent plan for blowing the socks off the citizens of Enid.

Thaxton would recline comfortably back into the corner of one couch, leaning on one elbow with his fist resting against his mouth and the other arm stretched across the back, legs crossed. T.J. would sit on the facing couch, right smack in the middle, perched nervously on the edge. No matter how much scotch Thaxton would pour, T.J. would never relax and stop nattering on and on about this detail or that issue long enough for Winchester Wilcox the Third to get some sleep. Perhaps it was for the best – T.J. was annoying, yes, but increidbly bright and really quite harmless.

And anyway, after Thaxton finally dismissed T.J., insisting he’d done a good job as always and that he, Thaxton, would now take care of the rest, don’t worry – Thaxton would collapse into his chair with one last glass of scotch, and take a long, deep breath. Then he’d look into the wisened eyes of Winchester Wilcox the Third – who would be looking back at him, dutifully – and ask with a sigh, “What do you think, Winchester?”

Winchester Wilcox the Third thought Thaxton knew exactly what he was doing, and he didn’t need anyone else – not even his most trusted companion – to tell him whether it was right or wrong.

So, having thought so, Winchester Wilcox the Third yapped and wagged his tail. Thaxton laughed, dropped his hand from his mouth, uncrossed his legs, and stood up from his chair.

“Alright, friend,” Thaxton said with a scratch on Winchester’s head, “let’s scrounge up some lunch, shall we?”

Now this, Winchester Wilcox the Third thought, was a very excellent plan.

Six Random Things About Myself: Part Three

This one sort of speaks for itself, so I’ll get straight to it. Random thing number three: I have a healthy obsession with pineapples.

It all started with this:

And it grew from there, subtly infiltrating my house. Let’s take a walking tour, shall we?

Well here we are just outside my house– Regardez! Un anana!

Incredible. Well, turning out attention to my home’s facade, you will see that there are no pineapples. But you see that space in the center of the top frieze thing — the actual name of which is disturbingly absent from my mind right now — where there should be some sort of neo-classical ornament?

I think a pineapple would fit in nicely. That was originally my father-in-law’s suggestion, by the way. But I like it.

So let’s step inside, which brings us immediately into the living room, in which you will find a number of masterfully subliminal and diverse representations of the pineapple.

And, if it were not for the fact that I am pointing out as many as I can remember, you would discover them one by one, to your delight and amusement.

Which will eventually give way to the determination of the hunt, as you begin to wander through the rest of the house.

You will say something like, “how many pineapples do you HAVE?!” as you scour in and around everything, intent on finding (and counting) them all.

But chances are good you will not find them all. *I* could not even find them all on my first round around the house. Or the second. You won’t see them all here, I promise you that.

Perhaps now you are beginning to think that this girl is a bit quirky.

Or maybe you’re wondering what her husband thinks of all the pineapples.

What if I told you that most of my pineapple paraphernalia was gifted? Like this, which was given to her by his grandmother.

Or maybe you’re wondering why she is suddenly using the third person. And that was just in the kitchen.

Did you know that the pineapple has been a symbol of hospitality since the colonial days? Can’t you just feel the hospitality oozing out all over the place?

I wouldn’t necessarily say that my proclivity for pineapples is a full-on obsession. It’s not like I think about pineapples day and night.

It’s more like a trademark.

And a convenient motif for Christmas shopping. I don’t mind it.

In fact — as we enter my office/studio/guest room — there’s something enjoyable about hearing about a pineapple trinket or shirt or objet that someone saw while on vacation and immediately laughed and thought of me.

I’ve been hearing that story for almost ten years now and it never gets old. If I make no other impression on the people of this earth, as least I will be fondly remembered as the crazy pineapple girl. That’s good enough for me.